The wind here wasn't real. It had no source, no warmth or chill—only the vague imitation of movement, like a memory pretending to be weather. Maybe it wasn't meant to be noticed. Arden stepped forward into the middle of the open training space, his hands in his coat pockets as always, a few strands of his pale hair fluttering upward before settling down again. He wasn't tense. He never looked tense.
"I'm going to push you hard," he said, his voice even. "Harder than I've done before."
I didn't respond. I wasn't sure how to.
"That tends to speed things up," he continued, pacing slowly in a wide arc. "Magic is one part talent, three parts understanding, and whatever's left is just raw, unrelenting will. Most people discover their true will only when cornered by what they spend their lives running from."
He turned back toward me, eyes unreadable.
"That's why I'm removing the potion's effects completely," he said. "No more numbing. And I'm going to bring your buried memories to the surface—loud and clear."
A cold silence settled in my stomach. I swallowed. "Why?"
"Because it matters. What you carry," Arden said. "I think…facing your own pain is necessary. Better to break now and grow stronger than carry a wound unacknowledged."
He spoke like fact. I wanted to argue he was cruel, reckless. But somehow, I knew it wouldn't change anything. The worst part?
A part of me agreed.
He kept walking until he stood across from me again. "You'll need a calm mind to cast properly. Not just for now, but for what comes next," he said. "I'm laying the foundation to eventually teach you sixth-tier magic."
My brain snagged on the number. "Sixth?" I echoed, the word foreign in my mouth.
"That's the long-term goal," he said. "Not today. First we build your control, your mind, your will. We'll start with lower-tier spells. Tier one, maybe two. Mastery before ambition. But you'll understand why the path matters."
He paused, hands still behind his back. "Magic is divided into ten tiers. Most humans reach tier three or four. Fifth and sixth are rare—taught in royal academies or reserved for court mages."
"And the higher ones?" I asked, throat dry.
"Tier seven?" Arden said, glancing off toward the edge of the barrier. "That's when spells stop looking like spells and start looking like natural disasters. You can make forests vanish and mountains split."
He scratched his cheek, almost sheepish. "Eight... bends space. Maybe time. It's hard to describe unless you've seen it. Or survived it."
Then, quieter: "Nine and ten... those aren't for mortals. That's not battlefield magic. That's divine. If magic has rules, those spells break them."
"Have you...?"
He nodded once. "I've cast from every tier except seventh."
I wasn't sure what to do with that. I wasn't sure if anyone should have that kind of power.
The world around us shimmered for a moment, a ripple passing through it like sunlight on disturbed water. "This space," he said, "is the result of an eighth-tier spell."
That... couldn't be true. Or shouldn't be. That would mean—
A god. He was on par with a god. And he just said it like it was nothing. Like he was telling me how much tea he drank in a day.
Was I training with a man or a force of nature wearing skin?
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but no words came out.
Then Arden moved a hand in the air, drawing a slow, deliberate gesture with his fingers. It felt like a string pulled taut inside my chest suddenly snapped. Something cracked open, and the fog in my mind— the gentle dullness that had shielded me from everything, like a fog over my memories—was gone.
Then the storm hit—like a tidal wave crashing down without warning.
I stumbled, nearly dropping to my knees as the memories surged. Fire. Screams. The smell of burning wood and flesh. My mother's hand slipping from mine. The blood on the floor. The second village. The hate. The way they looked at me like I was something dirty, something less.
I gritted my teeth. My heart pounded too fast. My breath came too shallow. I couldn't think. I didn't want to think. I just wanted it to stop.
"Don't resist it," Arden said from across the field. His voice echoed strangely now, like the space around us had changed. The distance between us stretched impossibly wide in an instant, though neither of us had moved.
"This test won't stop until you land a hit on me," he said. "Fists, magic—it doesn't matter."
I couldn't even see him clearly anymore. The tears blurred my vision, but I wasn't crying. Not really. It was just... too much.
I sank to the ground, my nails digging into the dirt that wasn't dirt. My breath came in ragged gasps, choking me. Why? Why was he doing this?
Right. Right—it was his fault. He brought me into this. He gave me the potion. He kept secrets. He made me feel safe and then tore it away. He wanted this.
He wanted me to suffer.
A fierce spark ignited in my chest. I clenched my fists, blinked the haze away, and hauled myself upright.
If this was what he wanted, I'd give it to him.
I shouted, the sound raw and torn, and launched forward. I didn't care what came out—blast, bolt, strike—I just wanted to hit him. To make him feel something, anything. He just stood there, motionless.
But the moment I reached him, he moved—just slightly. A tilt of the shoulder. A step to the side. Like wind slipping through fingers. I missed.
I charged again, light blooming unevenly in my palm, too wild to shape. My strike met nothing. Arden tilted his head, his body shifting just enough to let my arm pass harmlessly by.
I stumbled forward, caught myself, and turned. He was still facing me, hands behind his back now, as if this wasn't worth the effort of raising them.
Another swing. Another miss. The air crackled against my skin, but it was all from me—panic and anger fighting to shape something that resembled magic.
He stepped aside again. Not fast. Just precise.
I could feel the memories pressing in now, stronger than before. Not like distant echoes, but fresh. Immediate. My legs moved, but I was somewhere else. The smoke. The fire. The screaming. My mother's fingers, stiff and burned, still reaching toward me even as the rest of her lay buried beneath that broken beam. My father's voice. My own breathing, fast and shallow, like it had been that day when I ran and ran and didn't look back.
A warm weight on my chest. My mother's trembling voice, whispering for me to hide. My father's hand on my shoulder, gentle but firm. I didn't listen. I couldn't. I remember the sound of the door splitting, the light vanishing behind their backs as they stood between me and what came next.
The second village, the one I fled to, where they let me stay because they pitied me. Or maybe feared me. That part was never clear. But they never let me forget I was a guest in a home that didn't belong to me.
I lashed out, screaming, fist clenched. Arden caught my wrist and twisted gently. His palm met my side and pushed me off balance, sending me sliding back.
"You're shaking," he said.
"Because of you!" I screamed, my voice ragged. "All of this. You're the one who gave me that potion. You've been controlling this from the beginning."
He watched me. Said nothing.
"You have the power," I went on, the words tumbling over one another. "You could've stopped it. You could've done something. But you waited. You let everything happen just so you could come in and play the savior."
I took a step forward. Then another. My legs felt numb.
"I never asked you to save me," I whispered. "I never asked to be here. I never asked to owe you anything."
"You don't," Arden said quietly.
"Then why are you doing this?!"
He stepped forward this time and struck—not hard, but solid. His palm met my collarbone and sent me stumbling. I tried to respond, but another hit found my ribs, angled to knock the air out without breaking anything. I went down again. The floor wasn't cold. It wasn't anything. This place was his. His spell. His world.
"I don't need you to fix me," I muttered, trying to rise. "I don't need—"
"You do," he interrupted, voice even.
"Stop pretending you understand," I spat. "You don't know what it's like."
"Right," he said simply. "I don't."
Another blow caught my shoulder as I charged. He wasn't being cruel. He didn't hurt me more than necessary. But he didn't let up, either. He struck when I left openings. Pushed when I got too close. Each time, I ended up on the floor. My magic sparked, fizzled, died.
Every time I stood, the memories returned—more vivid than before. I heard the villagers muttering behind me. I felt the blood drying under my nails. I remembered the hunger. The weight of silence after nights spent crying into hay that smelled of mold.
And I remembered Arden's face as he stood there, backlit by the fire, when he first arrived. Like none of it mattered to him. Like I was just one more broken thing he'd pick up on his way to somewhere more important.
I gritted my teeth, tears hot in my eyes. He didn't even look like he cared.
"You expect me to be thankful?" I hissed, voice jagged like broken glass. "For this? For you?"
Arden didn't answer. He blocked another strike, turned my momentum against me, and I fell.
"I'm not," I said. "You're not some savior. You're just another monster who thinks he knows better."
He raised his hand again, but didn't strike. The space between us seemed to shift—stretching, bending. He was suddenly farther away, though he hadn't moved.
"I'm not here to save you," he said quietly. "I'm here to train you."
I lashed out again, fists swinging with nothing but fury behind them. Arden barely moved. He didn't need to. Every strike missed, brushed aside like a leaf on the wind. His eyes stayed steady on me—unmoved, unreadable. I hated that look. It was not pity. Not kindness. Just quiet watching, like I was some broken thing to be studied.
"Stop wasting effort," he said, voice low, careful. Few words, but each one felt like a weight.
I didn't answer. What could I say? That everything he'd said was poison? That the memories tearing through my mind made it impossible to think, to plan, to fight properly? Seraphina's lessons, her calm breathing, her insistence on control—useless now. My thoughts tumbled in a haze of fire and death. The smell of smoke, the screams, the faces of those I loved—lost to me again and again.
It was his doing. I knew it.
He had power—power beyond anything I had seen before—and yet, he had come at the moment when I was breaking. Had he truly saved me? Or was I just another piece in whatever game he played? I never asked for his help, never begged for his protection. All he gave me was silence and demands, dragging me from one nightmare into another.
"If you're a god," I choked out, grief bleeding through every word, "then I'd rather kneel to the devil." The words slipped out before I could hold them back—raw and sharp.
He did not answer.
I attacked again. Faster this time. Not with skill, but with desperation. My hands sought to land a single hit, anything—fists, elbows, whatever. But he moved without effort, blocking with the flat of his palms, gentle but firm, pushing me back, steady and sure. He was not cruel in his defense, but he was relentless.
Each time his hands found mine, it reminded me I wasn't just outmatched—I was undone. Not just by him, but by everything I hadn't faced.
"You think this is about me?" His voice sliced through the chaos inside me. "No. It's about you."
I stumbled back to my knees, breath caught in my throat. The memories came flooding in again—the flames consuming the village, my mother's eyes wide with fear, my father's last whispered words urging me to run. The cold nights hiding in shadows, the cruelty I faced in the village I fled to, the second attack that crushed what little hope I had left.
I wanted to scream, to curse, to break something—anything. But the anger felt hollow beneath the weight of loss and exhaustion. I wasn't a fighter by nature. I was just a girl who had lost everything too quickly, forced to grow up before I was ready.
"Why?" I whispered, voice breaking. "Why did you save me if all you wanted was to break me more?"
Still no answer. Only the quiet space between us.
The space between us warped again, stretching unnaturally, like the world didn't want me to reach him. My knees buckled. I sank to the ground, chest heaving, vision swimming—but I kept moving. My hands found the earth, then his boots. Somehow, I was on my feet again, staggering toward him. I raised my arm—not in rage, but something quieter. My fist struck his chest, soft and useless. "You should've left me," I whispered.
Another hit. A trembling push. He didn't flinch.
"You should've let me die there."
I hit him again. And again. Not hard. Not fast. Just rhythmically, like trying to knock something loose inside.
My fists thudded against his shirt. He didn't stop me.
"I didn't ask for this," I murmured. "I didn't want to fight anymore. I just wanted to rest. Just once."
My legs gave out, and I slumped against him. His coat smelled like wind and something sharp—magic, maybe. "Why are you making me live?" I asked.
He didn't answer. But he didn't step away.
He knelt beside me, calm and steady. "You have to face this," he said quietly. "Pain buried in your heart won't take you anywhere."
I looked up at him, at his unchanging face. A man who spoke little but meant everything he said.
He placed a hand on my shoulder—not to restrain, but to anchor. To remind me I was still here, still whole. "You need to control yourself, face what you've buried inside. Only then can you move forward and grow stronger."
I closed my eyes, memories burning behind my eyelids. Tears came slow at first, a single drop tracing a cold line down my cheek. Then more, spilling over like a dam breaking. I didn't fight it. The sorrow I'd carried for so long finally found its voice—not in screams, but silent sobs that shook my whole body.
The memories clawed again—flashes of smoke and fire, the village swallowed by night. Faces I'd known, voices lost to ash. My mother's trembling hands reaching out, my father's desperate silence. The cold loneliness of empty roads, endless flight, every lost hope pressing down. It crashed over me, raw and unforgiving.
Life had thrown me into a storm without warning, stripping away innocence I didn't know I still held.
The ground beneath me wasn't solid. It felt like kneeling on thin air, trembling like ice about to crack. Every move felt unsteady—just like my mind, racing and breaking all at once.
I tightened my fists, but there was nothing to hold. No dirt, no grass, no familiar home—just emptiness that made everything worse.
My chest ached.
It wasn't just memories—they were sharp and cruel—but what stung most was feeling helpless all over again. Like that scared girl, watching her village burn, hearing her parents cry out, abandoned in a world too big and cruel.
I swallowed hard, trying to breathe through the ache, but it wouldn't ease. I hadn't asked for any of this. They said I was strong now, but I still felt small.
Lost. Broken.
The man beside me stayed still. No words, no advice, just quiet presence.
Strangely, that was comforting. He didn't try to fix me or tell me to be strong. He let me be—letting the storm inside rage and tear itself apart until only ache remained.
I swallowed again, trying to catch my breath between waves of grief. I wanted to curse him, blame him for everything, but anger tangled with something else—raw and fragile.
I was exhausted. Broken. Alone, except for this silent figure who'd brought me here. Deep inside, a small part flickered—a fragile spark I hadn't felt in a long time. Not hope. Not yet. But a faint thread of survival.
The tears slowed. My breathing steadied. The weight in my chest shifted enough to lift my head. He was still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
He waited long enough that the silence didn't feel empty. When he spoke, his voice was low and even—no softness, no warmth, just quiet words laid like stones on a path.
"Sorry," he said simply. Not for the pain, but for pushing. For opening wounds before they'd healed.
He paused, then added, "You're unbottled now. You need to calm yourself. The chaos is closer, but you've managed better than before. When you're ready, land a hit."
He stayed grounded, steady—a silent anchor in shifting air. No challenge in his stance, no provocation in his eyes—just the expectation that this was mine to meet.
I looked at him. Heart heavy, but something steadier stirring beneath. The memories still clawed, quieter now, less frantic. The storm had broken, leaving raw ache—but clearer. With trembling breath, I pushed myself to my feet. The space between us felt smaller, less trap, more testing ground. I had to do this. For me. For the girl I'd been, and the woman I hoped to become.
I had pushed through the worst of it—at least, for now. But the pain didn't just leave scars. It left questions.
I never asked why the bandits came. Why they slaughtered everyone. I was too young to think beyond survival back then—but not now.
If I was done running, then I had to start digging. Because something about it all never sat right. Why did that second village get attacked not long after I arrived? Why were cultists circling us now, like moths to a flame?
The potion may have dulled the memories, but it hadn't erased the sense that something was wrong. I had accepted too many convenient explanations—bandits, ogres, bad luck. But what if it wasn't just chance? What if someone wanted both villages gone?
I wasn't ready for answers. But I knew, with awful clarity, that I needed to find them.
I would learn the truth. About the raids. About the cultists. About the monsters behind it all. Even if it burned.
I moved forward, unsteady at first. Every step like dragging chains, but I forced myself on, toward him. Not with fury, but with everything locked away—grief, fear, anger, and the stubborn thread of will that refused to snap.
I don't know how much time passed after that.
Minutes, hours—maybe more. The sky above us never changed, just an endless stretch of blue, cloudless and still. The world Arden had carved out for this training was quiet and strange. The ground shimmered faintly beneath my feet—solid, but not quite real, like glass pressed against starlight. Everything felt both weightless and heavy, as if time here moved on its own terms.
We didn't speak much. We didn't need to.
He stood a few paces ahead, one hand behind his back, the other open and calm. Every strike I threw at him—still clumsy, but no longer wild—he blocked without effort. Not to mock, but to guide. My blows landed against his palm, again and again. And again. Each one met with the same quiet stillness.
No harsh words. No condescension.
Just the sound of my feet against the floor and the steady rhythm of movement.
There were moments I slipped. Times I nearly lost my footing. But I kept going.
And then—eventually—something changed.
I stood still, arms outstretched, breath held tight in my chest. My hands glowed faintly, warmth buzzing against my palms. I focused—harder than ever. And in front of me, shimmering and flickering and fragile as spun glass, a golden wall blinked into existence.
A shield. Thin and faintly curved, like a ripple of sun caught in glass.
But it held.
It didn't sputter out like before. It didn't crack or vanish after a breath. It stayed. Shimmering. Solid. Real.
For the first time, I had cast a spell and kept it.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't powerful.
But it was stable. Mine.
I knew the basics now. Not just in theory, not just fumbling through someone else's instructions. I understood them—enough to shape them into something real.
My first real spell.
I stared at it, not quite smiling. But something close.
I looked at Arden.
He didn't praise me. Just gave the faintest nod, barely there.
Then, as if it were nothing at all, he summoned a sword made of light. Pale, ethereal. Beautiful in a way that made my stomach clench. He stepped forward, raising the blade—not fast, not threatening, but deliberate.
And then—he thrustedforward.
The point of the blade passed just beside me, inches from my face.
I flinched, jumped back with a shout, already reaching for my own magic again. "Hey! What the hell was that?!"
His expression didn't change. "Your guard was down."
"That doesn't mean you pretend to stab me!"
"It worked, didn't it?"
I scowled, heat rushing to my cheeks. He was infuriating. But… I didn't turn away.
Instead, I stayed there. Standing.
I was still breathing. Still here.
And for once, I wasn't trying to run.